Texts to a Dead Man
by Web of Obsidian
Summary: Sherlock fell. John needs to cope with the aftermath. Series of drabbles set post-Reichenbach, rated for angst and mentions of suicide.
1. Chapter 1

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
****Subject: Why? **

**My therapist says I should be moving on, except I can't. How can you expect me to move on from this, Sherlock? Why did you make me watch?**

* * *

It had been two weeks. The funeral had been a couple of days ago. He hadn't been to the graveyard at all since then.

Two weeks since his world turned itself sideways. Two weeks since The Fall.

Moriarty was dead. They found him on the rooftop, bullet in his mouth and a gun in his hand.

Sherlock was-

His limp had come back, too. Psychosomatic, there was nothing wrong, but it hurt him a lot now. It gave him an excuse to not do anything. He sat in Sherlock's favorite chair, most of the time, the flat growing cluttered from disuse. There were still experiments leftover, scattered all over the kitchen table. There was a bag of frozen ears in the freezer, although he wasn't sure why.

He'd never know now, would he? Because Sherlock was-

Mrs. Hudson brought tea up every now and then. Food, sometimes food she'd made herself, sometimes Chinese takeout or pizza. He didn't eat it; he would always eat takeout with Sherlock. That food tasted like cardboard now.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
****Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**So, recently fallen into the Sherlock fandom, and now suffering from post-Reichenbach feels. And filming has been pushed back for Series Three until 2013/14 because of The Hobbit (which looks awesome, but... SHERLOCK). So here's a series of short little drabbles. Twenty-five in total, the last to be posted on Christmas, just 'cause I can. Reviews, while not necessary, are craved.**


	2. Chapter 2

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
****Subject: Coping**

**You'd say this is stupid, but I kept your jacket. Your brother got it cleaned and gave it back to me. Said that it might help with coping. I don't know how he could think that. The door hadn't even closed before I started crying. You'd probably think that's stupid too.**

* * *

It had been a month, now. He'd moved out of 221B; the memories hurt too much. Now he was living in a dreary old flat somewhere, by himself, scraping by. He wasn't in a good place at the moment, not at all. It hurt too much, it all hurt. He still couldn't understand. His hands were trembling again, he relied on his cane so much more than before.

Nightmares were frequent as well. Afghanistan. Sherlock jumping. Sherlock being alive, only to disappear, and he'd wake up with a sob. He drank, too.

Mycroft had stopped by, just once. Gave him Sherlock's jacket, said that it might help him cope and that Sherlock would have wanted him to have it.

That was rubbish. Sherlock hated anything sentimental. All it did was let John cry himself to sleep the following night.

He wasn't coping. He knew he should, but he just couldn't.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
****Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**For the record, I'm going to probably need help with ideas. I've come up with at least twelve chapters, five of which are typed, and I know the plot and the ending, but I need stuff to come in between. So ideas are craved. Reviews are appreciated.**

** Fun fact: Minus author's notes and line breaks, each chapter is 221 words long.**


	3. Chapter 3

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Gravestone**

**Your gravestone is boring. Mycroft picked the tombstone. It's black. Just your name on it. Boring. **

**You'd hate it.**

* * *

He finally visited the graveyard again after two months. Standing next to Sherlock's grave, by himself, he can't help but let a dry sob push past his lips.

"You idiot," he muttered, although he didn't mean it.

There was a long period of silence.

"I hate you."

Again, he really didn't mean it. How could he?

"I knew that you were lying when you said that you were a fraud. I just _knew_. And then when they found Moriarty's body, I knew that you were forced to do it. You didn't want to do this. Which I suppose is some comfort. You didn't willingly subject me to this mess. You didn't mean to hurt me, you were probably doing some noble act in trying to save me."

There wasn't a response. He wasn't really expecting one.

"One more miracle, Sherlock," he whispered, echoing his words from all those months ago. "One last miracle, for me. Please. Please don't be dead. Don't leave me alone."

But it had been months. Sherlock was dead, and he wasn't coming back again.

John still wasn't coping.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	4. Chapter 4

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: I miss you**

**I don't even know why I text you. Your phone's been disconnected, you're**

**Oh, I'll say it. You're dead. You died. You jumped off a building and made me watch. I don't know why I talk to you still. I still miss you.**

* * *

There were times when he still thought Sherlock was alive. He'd forget where he put his computer and ask Sherlock where he hid it. He'd wake up from a loud noise and yell at Sherlock to keep the experiments quiet. He'd buy groceries for two, make enough food for two, make tea for two.

Once, he'd slipped up in front of Lestrade. He had seen the car drive up through the window, seen Lestrade got out. Someone knocked firmly at the door. He'd shouted to Sherlock that it was Lestrade, probably with a case for them-

He'd stopped just at the door, slowly opening it. The Scotland Yard detective was at the door. They just looked at each other for a couple moments. Lestrade didn't know what to say in the ensuing silence, so after the pointless "how are you" conversation, he had left. John had sank down onto the couch, burying his head in his hands.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**So, four chapters down, twenty one to go. Provided the apocalypse doesn't come first. (note sarcasm)**


	5. Chapter 5

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Talking**

**I understand why you talked so much, so often. It makes more sense now, when you talk everything out. Except I still think I'm talking to you.**

* * *

It happened again. He had found a new girlfriend. Her name was Julia. They'd been talking about some of their friends, laughing over some story Julia had told about the time her friend bought a jar of chicken feet and left it in the fridge, but didn't tell her boyfriend about it. The boyfriend nearly had a heart attack, not expecting to see chicken feet in the refrigerator.

"My flatmate Sherlock is prone to leaving eyes in the microwave," he replied with a grin. She laughed, with comments like "Seriously? He does that?" but John had frozen, the world going suddenly silent.

He didn't live in 221B Baker Street anymore.

He lived alone, in his apartment, barely managing to get by.

Sherlock was _dead_.

"-ohn? John, you okay?"

He snapped back to reality and looked at her with a bleak expression.

"Sherlock-" he said quietly. "He- he died. A few months ago. I just- forget. Still talk to him sometimes. Think he's standing next to me."

He left shortly after. Julia never called back.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	6. Chapter 6

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Subject: Hats**

**I have that hat of yours. The one you hated, the deerstalker. You'd think I'm being sentimental again, wouldn't you?**

* * *

It wasn't just the coat that he had left of Sherlock. When he left 221B, he took all his things and some of Sherlock's as well.

The violin. He didn't know how to play it, but he couldn't bring himself to sell it, and it sat in its case on a shelf.

The hat. That stupid hat that Sherlock always hated. The pictures stopped going around, the ones of Sherlock in the hat. He didn't know if the younger man would have been happy or not. He liked fame, but he hated that hat.

There was the skull, too, along with some of the books, and the one picture he'd actually gotten to take of the two of them, and the scarf.

He hated them. He hated that every time he saw them he saw Sherlock, every time he saw the violin he heard the self-composed music, every time he saw the hat he saw Sherlock moaning over the idiocy of the remainder of the human race, hated that at every black coat he felt irrational hope rising in his chest-

* * *

**To: John Watson**

**Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**...Review?**


	7. Chapter 7

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Subject: Anderson**

**I ran into the idiot yesterday. I don't even remember what it was that he said, except that he insulted you, but I do remember punching him in the face. It was funny, his expression. Would you have thanked me?**

* * *

He really did punch Anderson in the face. John was in a pub, and he bumped into Anderson, who was more than a bit drunk. A lot drunk, incredibly drunk, something along those lines. Sherlock could have come up with a better term that insulted him at the same time.

"Anderson," John said cordially, stepping around the taller man.

"You're the freak's friend, righ'?" Anderson slurred. John stopped abruptly, then slowly turned around.

Anderson knew _exactly_ who he was. They'd certainly insulted each other enough times. It was a testament to how drunk Anderson was then if he couldn't tell who John was.

"What did you just say?" he asked coldly. Anderson peered closely at him. John recoiled at the stench of liquor.

"I _saids_, you're the fr- fr- freakth friend, righ'?" Anderson asked again.

Next thing he knew Anderson was on the ground, his face resembling a rotten tomato. They were thrown out of the bar, but it didn't matter.

* * *

**To: John Watson**

**Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**Whilst Anderson has potential as a character and not just as a punching bag, I really don't like him that much. And I'm kinda running low on ideas. There's a few more after this, but... um... **


	8. Chapter 8

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
S****ubject: Molly**

**I ran into Molly today. London seems awfully small, first Anderson, now her. ...You idiot, couldn't you "deduce" that she loved you?**

* * *

"John?"

He paused, hearing his name amidst the bustle of the busy London streets.

"John, is that you?"

John Watson turned to come face to face with none other than Molly Hooper.

"Molly!" he said, plastering a fake grin onto his face. "Long time no see."

"Been busy," she replied with a shrug, shifting slightly. Her skin was paler than he remembered it to be, dark smudges under her eyes showed lack of sleep, badly applied makeup, or possibly both, and there was a dulled appearance to her eyes.

They wound up going out for coffee and somehow avoiding anything and everything that mentioned Sherlock. They talked about the weather, about the latest sports (something neither of them were interested in, but it was for the sake of conversation), and the charity fundraiser a few days ago...

"I got a call from Mycroft," she said. John's head snapped up. "He gave me Sher- his notes. All the things he'd written about his experiments."

They wound up leaving soon after, Molly in tears, but promised to meet up again soon.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
****Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**Not really happy with this chapter, but it doesn't really matter. Also, a huge thank you to those who offered up ideas. Everything is now in outline form and there's a sort-of plot in the making. :) Reviews are good!**


	9. Chapter 9

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Ringtones**

**I heard "Staying Alive" the other day and nearly had a panic attack. Looking back on it now, it's rather amusing... in a really odd kind of way.**

* * *

It really was rather amusing. He'd been walking through the supermarket to buy milk (oh, the memories of arguments that brought up) when it came on over the speakers, and he'd just frozen there, his mind racing, but he finally took a few deep breaths and calmed down.

For a split second, he had thought that Moriarty was somehow alive, that he was laughing at John, taunting him with that mocking sing-song laughter of his. But then reason took over, and he tried to calm his raging heartbeat. Moriarty was dead, Sherlock was dead. Both dead, not coming back. This was just a song that happened to have unfortunate memories attached to it. That was all.

Dead. _Dead_, both dead. It had been four months, this had to stop. He took a few more breaths to calm himself before going to the check-out.

He didn't even realize he wasn't using his cane until he got home and realized that he had left it leaning against a shelf of cereal back in the supermarket.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**Credit goes to Januscars for the idea to this chapter.**


	10. Chapter 10

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Therapy**

**They have me seeing my therapist again. She suggested I get someone in my life, to open up. She probably meant a person and not a dog, but dogs don't judge.**

* * *

He didn't even buy the dog like a normal person.

It had been pouring outside, and John didn't have his umbrella with him, but he was a long way away from the flat and he didn't have any money so he couldn't catch a cab. He couldn't even run because of his limp.

So he found himself walking through the rain, utterly drenched and peeved since this was his favorite jumper. But it was only because he was walking that he heard a whimper coming from an alleyway, specifically a soaked cardboard box containing one tiny English Bulldog puppy.

After a week he had basically adopted the thing, and after another week John titled him "Gladstone" since it was unusual and they were both unusual themselves. After three weeks he talked to him like Sherlock had spoke to his skull.

And if he ever accidentally called Gladstone "Sherlock", the dog responded all the same. John wondered if this was Sherlock's way of saying he was still watching out for him.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes._**


	11. Chapter 11

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: I really hate pin and chip machines**

**I had another row with a pin and chip machine. You probably would have laughed at me, getting into a fight with an inanimate object.**

* * *

This time, instead of going out for milk, he needed pet food for Gladstone. The puppy was still rather small for his age, according to the veterinarian, but he ate like he never had food before. Apparently, according to the vet again, this was also rather normal.

And then, of course, he found himself at the front of a long line arguing with those blasted machines that couldn't seem to understand that all he wanted to do was buy a bag of dog food and go home to sleep since he had just worked a 16-hour shift and this was getting rather tedious.

"_Please scan card again."_ After three tries, there was a pause in which he watched with bated breath. _"Card not authorized, please contact customer support."_

Finally, at home, he collapsed on the couch with a cup of tea. Gladstone climbed up onto his lap a few minutes later, and he gave a tired smile as he drifted to sleep.

"The trouble I go through for you, Sherlock..."

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**Be warned: there's angst ahead. Apologies in advance for that. Um... just wrote the last two chapters, and there's major feels there as well. Yeah. Major feels and angst. **


	12. Chapter 12

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Your birthday?**

**I went to visit your grave again, and then I realized it was your birthday. Then I realized you never told me.**

* * *

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock's elder brother, standing over the black gravestone, turned to look at John. The two were so incredibly different. John was an ordinary man living in a flat with a dog and barely scraping by, Mycroft was the British government with more money than anyone ever needed, always impeccable in dress and always with an umbrella.

"John," the older man said quietly."I found myself wondering what I should buy Sherlock for his birthday this year. Can you believe it? Six months and I keep forgetting."

"I do the same thing," John said quietly.

"Hmm." Another pause. "You know, one year, I bought him a chess set. We were just children. But then one of the children at his school broke it. I wanted to teach them a lesson, but Sherlock said we could play in our heads. We would rattle off notations and play the game that way, with a mental chess board."

The two men were so incredibly different, and yet, in that moment, they were exactly the same.

Both of them had lost a brother.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**Shameless angst/fluff, here. And I, being smart, forgot to update yesterday so you get two chapters today. Fair warning, you may want tissues for the next chapter.**


	13. Chapter 13

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: I hate you**

**You idiot. You awful**

**You made me watch. Moriarty was dead, and we ****_know_**** that he was Moriarty. Your reputation was salvageable. And you jumped. You selfish idiot. Desperate for an audience until the end.**

* * *

Lestrade came by one Tuesday afternoon to find John absolutely, thoroughly _drunk_.

"John?" he asked.

The doctor was sitting on the floor in one corner, staring at a bottle. There was a shattered picture frame on the floor, some papers scattered about. One of John's hands was bleeding profusely, but he didn't seem to notice.

"John," Lestrade repeated with more force. John looked up blearily.

"Les'rde!" he slurred. "Com'n hava drink." Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"I'm on duty. And you're drunk."

"Good ded- det- deduc- yeah."

He gave up trying to sound out whatever he was trying to say, but at least had the grace to look sheepish.

"Come on," Lestrade muttered. "Why don't you take a nap and sleep this off?" He pulled the bottle away from John before the other man could protest and helped him to his feet.

On his way out, he paused to pick up the broken picture of John and Sherlock and set it back on the mantle.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Dleivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	14. Chapter 14

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Apology**

**I wanted to say sorry for my last message. I know you can't hear me, but I feel horrible about it.**

**And that last failed message had a typo. Guess even computers can make mistakes. **

* * *

John woke up the next day to find his hand bandaged and the flat a mess and his head felt like someone had been beating it with a sledgehammer. There was a dim memory of Lestrade talking to him and telling him that he really shouldn't be drinking, but that could have just been a manifestation of his conscience telling him to stop drinking because he knew exactly how that could be detrimental to his health. He chose to ignore that.

He managed to shower and stagger into clean clothes that didn't smell like alcohol. By the time he got around to sweeping up the flat, some of the cobwebs had cleared away from his brain and he didn't feel quite as bad as he had felt before. He wasn't, however, conscious enough to notice the glass he was sweeping up came from the shattered picture frame or that there were teeth from Sherlock's decorative skull.

Then again, he might have been ignoring that as well.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	15. Chapter 15

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
S****ubject: Gladstone**

**I swear, that dog is you reincarnated. And... honestly, it's just amusing now. Doesn't hurt quite as much.**

* * *

The first time he compared Gladstone to Sherlock was when the dog brought in a dead rat and somehow got it into the fridge. It was sitting next to the butter, in the place where Sherlock might have once put down a frozen head. The second time was when Gladstone, during a week in which it rained constantly and without respite, lay on the couch for days. He hardly ate and basically stared at the wall, and John was just on the verge of taking him to the vet when the next day he was running around the house like a hummingbird on a coffee high. The third time was when he found that the dog had somehow gotten Sherlock's skull off the mantle over the fireplace and was seemingly engaged in a staring contest with it, occasionally making a soft _woof_ or pawing at it. John had taken one look at this and dissolved into laughter. He hadn't laughed that much in ages.

Almost eight months had passed.

And while Sherlock would never be forgotten, it felt like he was moving on.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
S****ubject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**Review? As an early birthday present? **


	16. Chapter 16

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Acrophobia**

**Or maybe the correct term would be "aeroacrophobia", meaning a fear of high, open places. I don't know. I just can't stand heights anymore. I can't**

**I'm terrified, Sherlock.**

* * *

He had a girlfriend. Again. Her name was Lucy and while neither of them were that serious about it he figured it was high time he started socializing again. Talking to a skull and a pet dog more often than you talked to actual people was a sure sign that something was wrong. Thankfully he hadn't mentioned that to his therapist. She would probably send him to go and talk to the nice men in white or something.

Anyway, Lucy. They were on a date, and Lucy wanted to ride the London Eye, so they went. It wasn't until Lucy was happily pointing out how tiny the people looked that John felt sick. Thankfully, he didn't actually vomit, but it was just the sight of everything-

_That's what people do, isn't it? Leave notes?_

_What are you doing?_

_Goodbye, John._

_No, don't- _

_SHERLOCK!_

…_.falling, falling, falling, falling..._

-and he couldn't stand being up so high.

He limped back to his flat that night, curled up on the couch with Gladstone and sobbed.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	17. Chapter 17

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Mrs. Hudson**

**I realized that, save for your funeral and my birthday that I hadn't spoken to Mrs. Hudson at all, so I dropped by to visit her. She hadn't sold out the flat, even though it was ready for someone else to move in. All our stuff is in the basement.**

* * *

"John?"

He paused, Gladstone turning around to sniff at the newcomer.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John said with a grin. "Hello." His elderly landlady – former landlady – gave a smile. She was just like he remembered, although a bit more worn down. Probably to be expected, considering-

"Hello, John dear," she replied. "And how are you and Gladstone doing?" Gladstone perked up at hearing his name. A short conversation later and they were walking back towards 221A, pointedly avoiding anything related to Sherlock. John wasn't sure he would mind at this point, talking about him, but Mrs. Hudson seemed determined to avoid the subject. Well, at least until they were on their third cup of tea.

"You know," she said, "I still have what you two left here. I moved everything into the basement flat, couldn't bear to sell a thing."

John brought home several more boxes of items that day.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**Considering that in some time zones it is still technically the 17th of December, I'm not late. Reviews are greatly appreciated.**


	18. Chapter 18

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Birthday**

**It's my birthday now. I understand why you never liked celebrations, now. Everything was so awkward.**

* * *

It had been a relatively small gathering. Sarah was there (while they were no longer together, they still maintained a friendly, professional relationship), as was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Molly, and a couple of John's friends from the army were there as well. A tiny part of John wanted to have the party at 221 Baker Street to save the trouble of bringing food to his flat and Mrs. Hudson was cooking, but he didn't think he could handle that. There were presents exchanged, smiles and laughter and _delicious_ food and equally delicious cake. Sarah couldn't stop petting Gladstone, who was ecstatic from all the attention.

And yet the cheer felt forced. John wasn't blind, despite Sherlock's comments otherwise; he could see the pitying glances sent in his direction, the hushed conversations across the room, the sympathetic smiles that seemed forced and fake. But he plastered a grin onto his face, talked with the rest of them, said thank you when expected and laughed at jokes that weren't really funny.

He breathed a long and grateful sigh of relief when it was over.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	19. Chapter 19

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Mary**

**So I met this girl. And I know you don't care (well, didn't care) about this sort of thing, but I really think she's the one, Sherlock, however cheesy that sounds.**

* * *

Mary Morstan was John's life within a week. They met while he was walking Gladstone, and then they started talking and John wound up walking home with a phone number in his pocket and a smile on his face and he feels so much lighter than he had just a couple weeks ago. Nine months since Sherlock died, and he met Mary. One month later they were dating, and it felt _right_.

He smiled more, felt happier. He talked to Mrs. Hudson more often, spoke to Lestrade because the man had done so much for him and eventually the two set to clearing Sherlock's name. It was the least they could do. He never heard from Mycroft again, but he supposed that was for the better.

She didn't care about his PTSD, and she didn't care how broken he was from Sherlock's death. She could make him laugh, make him smile. She was helping him move on, from the war, from Sherlock, from the past.

Mary was his saving grace.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	20. Chapter 20

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
S****ubject: (no subject)**

**Im getting MARRIED**

* * *

He supposed, that in retrospect, it was stupid of him to text Sherlock over this. The man was dead, if he was alive he probably wouldn't care, and if he did care John probably should have told him he was planning to propose before anything else. But the wedding was happening. In one month (almost exactly a year since Sherlock had died), he was getting married, and it had finally hit him. He had _known_, how could he _not_ have known, but there was just this sudden realization that _he was getting married._

The text was sent in a giddy rush of elation while he rode to Baker Street in a cab. Mrs. Hudson knew, she was on the guest list, but she wouldn't mind if he babbled on because _he was getting married._

Words, at this point, could honestly not describe how cheerful he felt. It was like the pain of the past year had shifted away leaving him floating on a cloud. Granted, his cheerfulness caused him to not pay attention to where he was going and walk into a person texting on their phone, but they didn't seem to mind.

_He was getting married!_

* * *

**To: John Watson  
S****ubject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: _Sherlock Holmes_.**


	21. Chapter 21

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
S****ubject: Best Man**

**I'd ask you to be the best man, but that wouldn't really work, now, would it? Just thought you should know I would have chosen you if I could have.**

He was dialing Sherlock's number into his phone before he paused and remembered that asking his late best friend to be best man at his wedding probably wasn't a very good idea. It was a pleasant surprise to find, however, that it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would have.

"Idiot," he muttered fondly, although not entirely sure who he was talking about. "Right, first I send messages to my dead best friend through grief, talk to a dog and a skull, then I talk out loud to myself. Okay. Right. Well, I guess that proves I'm a bit mad."

"You are, yeah," laughed a voice. John turned to grin at Greg Lestrade, who was standing behind him. There was a pause as they shook hands and exchanged smiles, falling into step as they walked down the crowded London street.

"Would you be best man at my wedding?"

To be honest, neither of them were sure where the question came from. Lestrade seemed shocked.

"I... I'd be honored."

* * *

**To: John Watson  
S****ubject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: _Sherlock Holmes_.**

* * *

**Messed up with the chapter orders, you probably want to go back and re-read Chapter 20.**


	22. Chapter 22

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Subject: Two years**

**Two years since you died, and I've finally moved on. Not quite sure why I'm still texting you, but I'm over the moon with happiness and no one else will listen to me anymore. Mary's pregnant, Sherlock!**

The text was sent in the midst of euphoria four months after John and Mary found out they were going to be parents.

She was two months pregnant when they found out, and it had come as a complete shock to them. It wasn't as though they'd been trying for kids, Mary just went for her yearly physical and they asked to run a couple tests and then while they were trying to find a cab so they could head out to dinner she just said it out of the blue.

He was nervous and happy and terrified and excited-

Baby names were simple enough. Harold if it was a boy (for both Harriet and their father) and Susan if it was a girl (for Mary's mother). There came a point where no one would listen to him; while he knew he had probably been talking everyone's ears off, it wasn't like he could help it. He was going to be a _father!_

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**

* * *

**I recommend tissues for next chapter. Apologies in advance.**


	23. Chapter 23

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Funerals**

**I hate funerals.**

* * *

He was a doctor, why couldn't he have-

The sky was bright and blue and the sun was shining and it was warm and it was _wrong_. The sky should be dark. It should be raining.

Susan was in his arms, so very incredibly tiny. Three weeks premature, but healthy. She had a few wisps of Mary's reddish-blonde hair and gray-blue eyes, but the eyes were normal for all babies.

God, she looked so much like Mary.

But why couldn't he have _saved_ her-

"John?"

It was Molly, dressed in black. Her eyes were rimmed red from crying; she had known Mary before-

"Hi."

His voice was flat and blank. Susie shifted slightly in his arms. Other mourners milled about, crying and murmuring condolences and telling him meaningless things but why did any of it matter anymore? Why did it all matter?

"John- I'm sorry." He nodded. "I can't- can't hope to understand what you've been through, but- John, we're here for you. Me and Greg- everyone- we... we're all here, John."

"I know."

Molly left after a minute of silence. John was left standing with Susie while they buried another part of his heart six feet underground.

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**Delivery to the following recipient has failed permanently: ****_Sherlock Holmes_****.**


	24. Chapter 24

**To: Sherlock Holmes  
Subject: Christmas**

**It's just me and Gladstone and Susie this Christmas. More than three years since you died, and nearly a year since Mary. I thought I'd moved on, but I **

**I miss both of you.**

* * *

Christmas. Almost one year since Mary died. A little over three years since Sherlock had jumped. A part of him wanted to fall back on former bad habits dive into a bottle and not resurface until New Year's, and a part of him wanted to curl up in his room and sob. He couldn't do either, though. He needed to keep strong for his little Susie.

His daughter was sitting in his lap, happily teething on his Christmas jumper, and Gladstone was gnawing on a large chew toy over in the corner. John just sat on the couch in a haze. He had decorated for Christmas, put up the tree and lights and everything, but his mind felt dulled and numb.

"Sorry, Susan," he said down to his daughter. "Daddy's tired, that's all." Susie gurgled again and continued teething on his shirt.

He didn't know why he bothered to text Sherlock. Falling back on old habits, he supposed. Desperate for some sort of comfort, and dead men don't pity or judge a person-

* * *

**To: John Watson  
Subject: Error**

**I'm not dead. -SH**


	25. Chapter 25

**Epilogue**

He didn't know how long he had stared at the text, but he found himself sitting on the couch without remembering sitting, Susie no longer in his trembling arms, and a familiar face looking down at him.

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock asked, head tilting to one side as Susie gurgled happily in his arms. Gladstone lifted his head up off John's leg to look at him before closing his eyes. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"How..." he said, not caring that he was gaping. "How did you... How..." Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Really, John, I thought the amount of time we spent together would have enhanced your literacy."

While it hadn't necessarily helped his language skills, John had found that _observing_ had been ingrained into his mind, constantly looking at the details, the little parts of a bigger picture, and he took the silence as an opportunity to take in his friend's appearance.

Well, certainly not dead, to start with. Still tall, same near-omniscient silver eyes. He was wearing an old sweater that hung limply on his thin frame; well, Sherlock had always been rather skinny, but he seemed closer to emaciated than thin. His cheekbones stood out even more prominently, his hands looked almost skeletal, but he was still Sherlock. And _alive._

"How are you here?" he said after a few moments of silence. "You were dead. I went to your funeral."

"Simple, John," the detective replied, flopping onto the couch next to John. "I wasn't dead to begin with." John shook his head slowly. "Isn't this what you wanted, John? Another miracle?"

John froze, then slowly turned to look at Sherlock with a cold glare.

"You were watching?" he hissed, keeping his voice down in order not to scare Susie. He didn't want to scare his daughter, even if he was itching to send his fist flying towards Sherlock's face. "You were _watching_ me? You made me watch you jump off a building and then you have the _audacity_ to come to your own _funeral_ and watch me _cry_ over your _grave_!" Sherlock flinched.

"John," he said, then paused. "John, I- John. I'm sorry. Do you want to know why I did it?" John continued to glare. "There were snipers. Armed snipers, and their targets were you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty made me jump or he would have shot you. Don't you see, John? Don't observe this time, just _look_. I did this to save _you_, and you weren't supposed to see it. I taught you too well, you figured out something was wrong too quickly. John, _please_, you have to believe me."

Another pause in which nothing was said, Sherlock anxiously watching his friend while John tried to process Sherlock was _alive. _Alive and... apologizing. Begging. Pleading.

Oh, he desperately wanted to scream at him, to rant and shout and yell and beat him senseless, but that wouldn't help anything. He knew the world would need to come to terms with everything and that would just be so _incredibly_ aggravating and he also knew that after this initial euphoria had died down he and Sherlock would need to sit down and _talk_, but-

John couldn't help it; he laughed and wrapped his friend in a hug. Sherlock made no move to return the motion, but he didn't expect that. It was Sherlock. He was _alive_.

"I have your coat and scarf, if you want them back," he said when he had pulled back, then frowned and took Susie from Sherlock's arms. "And your skull, and your violin, if you want them." Sherlock smiled.

"You kept my coat?" he asked.

"And your scarf. And your violin. And the skull." Sherlock's smile grew wider. "But- Hold on. You responded to my text."

"Yes, I did," Sherlock agreed. "My bad habits must have rubbed off on you. Talking to a skull and a dog more than actual people?"

"You wrote those messages?"

"It started to get a bit tedious, writing the same thing."

"Never known you to make a typo."

"You did just say you hated me."

"...I'll go and get your coat now."

"You do that."

He came back a few moments later to find Sherlock standing in front of the fireplace, turning the skull over in his hands. Susie was happily sitting next to Gladstone, playing with his ear.

"Consider that a Christmas present, although it might be missing a few teeth." John said.

"Why would it be missing teeth?" Sherlock ask, putting the skull down.

"...It ran into a wall."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but didn't respond. John tossed him the scarf and coat.

"Consider these presents as well." Sherlock caught the articles of clothing, pulled them on and deftly tied the scarf around his neck.

"Molly helped me fake my death. She was working in the morgue and Moriarty wasn't watching her, so it was easier to ask for her help. After that, I was traveling," he said as he smoothed out the black jacket. "I had to take out the rest of Moriarty's web before coming back to London. Couldn't wear the coat, or the scarf, because they were too distinctive. There's still pieces left, but it's safe enough that I could come back. I'll explain specifics later. Also-" Sherlock suddenly paused, sniffing his sleeve. "John, why does my coat smell like your deodorant?"

John flushed crimson, but met Sherlock's eyes.

"Probably the same reason your 'disguise' looks remarkably similar to my favorite jumper," he replied with a straight face. Sherlock's cheeks turned faintly pink, and he cleared his throat and looked away awkwardly. John laughed again. "Come on, Sherlock. Have you told anyone else you're alive? It's Christmas, they deserve to know, especially Mycroft, he was _distraught_-"

"John-"

"No, no protests. I know you don't like your brother, I don't really like him much either, especially with what he _did_ but that doesn't matter, and we're going to see Mrs. Hudson, she's spending Christmas alone this year since her sister's away, and you should give your brother a call, even though you probably don't want to-"

"John-"

"-and you're going to call Lestrade as well, and while I would love to see Donovan and Anderson's faces, would be amusing to leave them in the dark for a bit, and you should see Molly too because even though she knew, er, knows, she'd still want to know you're back and-"

"_John_."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"First of all, you aren't wearing shoes." John paused and glanced down at his feet. "Second, you might want to bring Gladstone and Susie instead of leaving them on the couch asleep. Third-"

He paused.

John looked at Sherlock as the consulting detective struggled for words.

"...Happy Christmas, John."

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

* * *

**And we're done. Merry Christmas, all.**

** EDIT: The sequel to this story has now been posted and can be found on my profile page, titled ****_A Study in Reaction._**


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